Read Online The Warrior Who Carried Life by Geoff Ryman - Free Book Online
Authors: Geoff Ryman
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from them in something like disgust. “He sent you to be an Angel?”
“Poison in his eyes. He thinks everything not swollen or scarred is radiant. You are better than your girl, I grant you. Your legs are thin.”
“He was wounded, he’s been healing!” Stefile exclaimed.
“In a fight?”
“Yes,” Stefile replied, emphatically, angry.
“Then he is not much of a warrior, is he?” The Angel stood away from the brick of the tub, and began to strut, still looking away from them “You might of course develop. We will not turn you away. You will stay with us for one month. At the end of that time, all of us will vote on whether you stay or go. We vote on your wife as well. If she is your wife.”
“Why?”
The Angel finally looked back at Cara, blinking with the self-evidence of the answer. “Because both of you must live with us.” He inspected Cara. “What is beauty?” he asked.
“That which is pleasing,” Cara replied, meaning that he was not, despite the sleek workings of his forearms and the grandeur of his face.
The Angel, unmoved, signalled with a grudging frown that the answer was acceptable enough. “A retreat is not pleasing. It is sometimes necessary. Then it must be done so quickly that even the enemy admires it. A blow must be beautiful. It must be quick and clean and kill at once. Armour is ugly. Swords are ugly. Only the human form is beautiful. It must dance in battle, unaided. And it must win.”
Suddenly he strode forward, eyes hard, meeting Cara’s. “Do not mistake, boy from the fields. Beauty is not womanly. It is not cowardly. It does not lose. We are the best fighters here. The other Schools know that. They fear us. They engage each other, but not us because we always kill them” He relented somewhat, relaxing, and turned away from Cara, and began to strut again. “The Men who Cut Horses are stronger, but they are brutal, merely. They are not slow, but neither are they fast. The Shadow Warriors are the ugliest; they are clumsy; we tangle them up in their metal coils. The Baked Men cannot be hurt, like the Men with Wrists of Steel, but they are not aggressive enough to win. The Poison Men come closest, but they rely on it too much; they are undertrained. We break them open like rotten fruit.” He gave a quick, joyful smile at the thought. The smile went hard and threatening as he spoke to Cara. “If you stay with us, boy from the fields with your”—he glanced at Stefile—“one-dress bondwife, we will make you nimble enough to climb up panes of glass and hang there for hours if we want you to. We will make you fast enough to run across the top of flowing rivers. You will know beauty alive when you see five arrows flying through the air towards your heart, and you catch them all.”
“With my teeth or with my bare feet?” Cara asked, weary of all this boasting.
“If we wish it. Yes,” replied the Angel with a hard, little smile. “You are hungry. You will eat with us, and join in the training this afternoon. Now we are washing and praying. We wash our entire bodies before we eat. I think you’d better wash too. It is a ritual. You will learn such rituals are important. My name is Haliki.”
Stefile chortled, somewhat deliberately, at the silliness of the name. Haliki meant, literally, Sir Hero.
Haliki looked at her, up and down. “Haliki,” he repeated. “You will not be able to do very much around here without me. Now go and wash.”
There were rooms where water fell on their heads. Cara and Stefile were very grateful for it after their travels. They followed the sound of mass murmuring into a hall. There, deep within the brickwork, cool and shaded, were rows of wooden tables, with centrepieces of white fleshy flowers and white berries. Butterflies flitted among them, and there were candles to give a rich orange light. From somewhere came the cool pattering of a fountain, and the rattling of paper leaves in the air ducts.
The last of the Angel Warriors and
“Poison in his eyes. He thinks everything not swollen or scarred is radiant. You are better than your girl, I grant you. Your legs are thin.”
“He was wounded, he’s been healing!” Stefile exclaimed.
“In a fight?”
“Yes,” Stefile replied, emphatically, angry.
“Then he is not much of a warrior, is he?” The Angel stood away from the brick of the tub, and began to strut, still looking away from them “You might of course develop. We will not turn you away. You will stay with us for one month. At the end of that time, all of us will vote on whether you stay or go. We vote on your wife as well. If she is your wife.”
“Why?”
The Angel finally looked back at Cara, blinking with the self-evidence of the answer. “Because both of you must live with us.” He inspected Cara. “What is beauty?” he asked.
“That which is pleasing,” Cara replied, meaning that he was not, despite the sleek workings of his forearms and the grandeur of his face.
The Angel, unmoved, signalled with a grudging frown that the answer was acceptable enough. “A retreat is not pleasing. It is sometimes necessary. Then it must be done so quickly that even the enemy admires it. A blow must be beautiful. It must be quick and clean and kill at once. Armour is ugly. Swords are ugly. Only the human form is beautiful. It must dance in battle, unaided. And it must win.”
Suddenly he strode forward, eyes hard, meeting Cara’s. “Do not mistake, boy from the fields. Beauty is not womanly. It is not cowardly. It does not lose. We are the best fighters here. The other Schools know that. They fear us. They engage each other, but not us because we always kill them” He relented somewhat, relaxing, and turned away from Cara, and began to strut again. “The Men who Cut Horses are stronger, but they are brutal, merely. They are not slow, but neither are they fast. The Shadow Warriors are the ugliest; they are clumsy; we tangle them up in their metal coils. The Baked Men cannot be hurt, like the Men with Wrists of Steel, but they are not aggressive enough to win. The Poison Men come closest, but they rely on it too much; they are undertrained. We break them open like rotten fruit.” He gave a quick, joyful smile at the thought. The smile went hard and threatening as he spoke to Cara. “If you stay with us, boy from the fields with your”—he glanced at Stefile—“one-dress bondwife, we will make you nimble enough to climb up panes of glass and hang there for hours if we want you to. We will make you fast enough to run across the top of flowing rivers. You will know beauty alive when you see five arrows flying through the air towards your heart, and you catch them all.”
“With my teeth or with my bare feet?” Cara asked, weary of all this boasting.
“If we wish it. Yes,” replied the Angel with a hard, little smile. “You are hungry. You will eat with us, and join in the training this afternoon. Now we are washing and praying. We wash our entire bodies before we eat. I think you’d better wash too. It is a ritual. You will learn such rituals are important. My name is Haliki.”
Stefile chortled, somewhat deliberately, at the silliness of the name. Haliki meant, literally, Sir Hero.
Haliki looked at her, up and down. “Haliki,” he repeated. “You will not be able to do very much around here without me. Now go and wash.”
There were rooms where water fell on their heads. Cara and Stefile were very grateful for it after their travels. They followed the sound of mass murmuring into a hall. There, deep within the brickwork, cool and shaded, were rows of wooden tables, with centrepieces of white fleshy flowers and white berries. Butterflies flitted among them, and there were candles to give a rich orange light. From somewhere came the cool pattering of a fountain, and the rattling of paper leaves in the air ducts.
The last of the Angel Warriors and
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